


Limitless

by BIGHANK (piano_fire), connorssock



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Allergies, Artist Connor, Connor has a vagina, Guided mastubration, Hank is literally a piece of art, House bound Connor, Human Connor, M/M, Trans Connor, ftm Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 21:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20442509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piano_fire/pseuds/BIGHANK, https://archiveofourown.org/users/connorssock/pseuds/connorssock
Summary: All his life, Connor could only dream of the life he could never lead. Confined to his flat thanks to allergies, he spent his days drawing, sometimes for jobs and sometimes for a hobby. When his art starts to come to life, he finally realises that in the realm of dreams, nothing is beyond him anymore.





	Limitless

**Author's Note:**

> I had the absolute pleasure of writing for BIGHANK's lovely art for the Hankcon Reverse Big Bang. Please be sure to give their art lots of love in the comments!
> 
> CW: Connor has a vagina and language used includes cock and folds. Hank also offers to play with his chest.

The weather outside was ever changing. Not that it mattered much to Connor. He sat in the window, clutching at his pencil, the pad in his hand trembled lightly. It was raining, again. People were rushing by, umbrellas and hoods clutched over their heads as they tried to get to wherever their morning dictated they were needed. For his part, Connor sat there and waited for a certain someone to pass by. There was nothing he actually knew about the man other than his looks. Usually, he passed by Connor’s building each morning between 8:30 and 8:40 and if it was later, he clutched a takeaway coffee cup to his chest. Some days there was someone else walking with him but that guy didn’t matter. Connor only had eyes for the large, silver haired man.

He’d named him Hank. Even worked out a whole backstory from him, it was as tragic as hopeful. Half Connor’s drawings were of Hank and the life he’d created for him. Of course, the guy in real life was probably nothing like the Hank of Connor’s dreams. Some days, he entertained the idea of calling out the window or getting his attention and waving but, as reality unfolded, all of Connor’s illusions would likely have been shattered. Sometimes, it was just better to keep fantasy and reality as separate as possible. This way, he could live in his little dream world and the stranger in the streets would be no wiser to the fact that his physique had been borrowed for Connor’s imagination.

There he was again, an umbrella hiding half his face and the shorter guy he sometimes walked with had an arm looped through his. They looked happy. It was a bittersweet sight as Connor imagined what it would be like, in the place of the other man. Having his own arm looped through ‘Hank’s’ arm, leaning his cheek against his arm as they rushed through the rain while laughing. Going about their day without a worry. Of course, Connor knew that was a fantasy, no life was so easy that it was worry free. Humanity thrived off conflict, without it, people tended to lose their way. Still, it was nice to dream of a live where Connor wasn’t stuck indoors, didn’t have to worry about leaving the house and having another anaphylactic shock and landing in hospital yet again with his brothers flapping around his bed like headless chicken.

Other than his allergies, Connor was perfectly fine. He would live his life without their incessant interference and well meaning mothering. They meant well but it still rubbed Connor the wrong way at times, the way they were so careful coming to visit him. Somehow, when it was his twin, it was worse. His almost carbon copy but without the defects, the one who could live life as he wanted and yet still wasted it. Deep down, Connor knew he was just being bitter and should be happy with what he had. But still, it would have been nice to be able to go to a lake, meet people and live a fulfilling life amongst society rather than the recluse he’d ended up being, all thanks to an overactive and paranoid immune system. Logically, he knew that things like pollen and emissions weren’t dangerous to him but try telling his body that.

Frustrated, Connor let out a sigh and returned to his sketchpad. It was the lake scene he had been dreaming about for so long now. That was where he had first met Sumo, Hank’s dog. The giant St Bernard had come bounding up to him in the dream as Connor relished the scenery. At least, Connor assumed that’s what a dog behaved like - his allergies meant there wasn’t even the slightest bit of hope he could ever get to bury his fingers in a dog’s fur. It was a shame, Connor had a feeling he would love dogs. Instead of lamenting his woes, Connor threw himself into drawing, trying to bring as much of the picture to life as he could. He allowed Sumo to be mid-prance, staring up at Hank who was dancing with, well, Connor was adamant it was just a made up character but anyone with half a brain could see it was blatantly him. It was just as well that the piece was for his own personal collection rather than one of his comics. Those were his saving grace, he could draw in his own little bubble, never worry about having to leave to get to a job. Freelance with a few regular comic strips got him enough income to make ends meet. Unfortunately, money couldn’t buy all forms of happiness. It couldn’t do away with the fact that his immune system was so overworked, it thought something as simple as pollen or peanuts was trying to kill him. To the point that his body then decided it would be a good idea to kill the offending object, and Connor in the process, with fire. So, everything was carefully delivered to his doorstep, decontaminated and then brought into the house. In the middle of a freezing cold winter, with a mask hidden under the scarves Connor buried his face in, he could risk venturing out as long as he didn’t go into a shop. Still, it wasn’t ever going to be as nice as the idea of dancing by the edge of a lake with Hank while Sumo proudly pranced around them.

Closing his eyes, Connor let out a sigh. There was no point in lamenting what could never be. He ought to be grateful that he even had what he did. After only lining a few more parts of the sketch, he cast it aside in favour of grabbing another one. This one had almost all the linework finished, it was one of Hank, a headshot of him softly smiling at the viewer. Connor wouldn’t put a finger on why that particular picture felt so special, it wasn’t even his best work if he was being honest with himself. However, it still called to him, each time he worked on it, he was granted a sense of warmth and comfort. Almost like Hank was curled behind him, holding him close and reassuring him that he was doing the right thing. As he coloured a little more of Hank’s eye, a sparkling, clear blue, Connor could have sworn he felt a hand caress his cheek. Swiping at it, he half expected a stray hair or a pesky bug to be on his fingers. Instead, he found his finger glistening with a tear. He hadn’t even noticed that he had started to cry. Through the haze, he looked at the picture of Hank and saw that a single tear had splashed onto the paper, soaked into the piece where Hank’s shirt opened and blurred the ink. It now looked like Hank had a tattoo on his chest. It wasn’t an idea the Connor as overly fond of but it wasn’t terrible either. At least it gave Hank a more chequered past, something more gritty that fit with how Connor sometimes liked to imagine him.

This time, it wasn’t a tear trickling down his cheek that gave him the sensation of a hand brushing through his hair. Connor whipped around in a panic, trying to find what it could have been. There was no breeze to ruffle his hair, he was alone in his home and nobody was behind him to play with his hair in such a way.

“Who’s there?” he called, there was definitely a presence in the room. Gripping his pencil in a sweaty fist, he looked around again. “I’m armed and not afraid to defend myself!”

There was no response but from the corner of his eye, Connor caught a golden glow. Looking at his drawing of Hank, the lines were shimmering in a soft gold that was most definitely not part of his art.

“What the-?” he reached for the paper and picked it up. The golden hue was still there even after blinking and rubbing his eyes roughly. “Hank?”

Settling back into his window nook, Connor stared at the picture and jolted when the golden glow got stronger. There was a hand wrapping around his wrist, the same soft gold as the picture. While Connor could see it, he couldn’t feel it. Wide eyed he looked up and the softly smiling outline of Hank was kneeling next to him. His mouth was moving, it looked like he was saying as soft “thank you” before blinking out of existence. All the gold was gone and once more, Connor was looking at the plain drawing of Hank he had been working on. Perhaps he was coming down with some kind of sickness or finally going mad, it didn’t matter. All Connor needed was a lie down and a good sleep to clear his mind. By the time he woke up, he would hopefully be back to his usual self.

Just to be safe, Connor didn’t work on Hank for the next couple of days. His mind kept drifting back to the incident though, more like a wishful dream than reality. However, he stubbornly kept working away on his commissions and paid work rather than finishing the headshot that his heart was craving to finish. None of his other art glowed gold or even seemed to come alive and slowly, Connor relaxed. Excuses were plentiful. He was tired and hungry. He had been feeling a little too lonely after seeing the man he’d based Hank off with the other man on his arms. He was getting deathly ill and this was his brain’s way of coping. The excuse didn’t matter, all that Connor cared about was that it hadn’t happened again since.

With nothing happening for a few days, he slowly built up the courage to pick up the piece again, pencil in hand. As always, all his windows were shut, the door was locked, hadn’t even been opened for the last three days. There was no way anyone could be in the house with him. Tentatively, Connor put pencil to paper and looked around. Nothing had changed. A few hesitant lines later, he had to laugh at himself. It was all a fever dream, maybe some wishful thinking, there was no way Hank was next to him those few days ago, and most definitely not in golden outline. That was just silly. Taking a better grip of his pencil, Connor began to draw in earnest and soon forgot about his worries.

Except, when he resurfaced for a moment from where he had sunk into his little world, he was met with another small, golden smile as Hank knelt next to him. While his mouth moved, no sound could be heard and Connor watched with a fascinated kind of horror as whatever Hank was saying came to an end with a small shrug and his head tipped to the side. The apparition dissolved into golden dust then and Connor was left alone once again. The only thing he could think of at that point was that he was going to have to learn lipreading. It was such an absurd reaction to what he had just seen, he let out a hysterical little giggle and put the picture of Hank to the side to keep it safe. This was it, he was finally losing his mind.

As the laughter subsided, Connor knew he had to take some form of action. The most logical thing would have been to get on the phone to his doctor and explain that he was finally going mad. But how could he explain that it wasn’t all his drawings coming alive, that only one seemed to be doing it and it was one that he had sort of been wishing it could be true. In all his years, Connor hadn’t felt more silly than in that moment as he realised that he was in love with his own creation. There was no way he could phone his doctor, not without conducting further experiments. So, Connor decided to vary things a little over the next couple of days.

He started off with drawing in a different location. It had probably been quite a while since he’d drawn at his desk, but he started his day there, after peering out of his window to catch a glimpse of the man he’d based Hank off. After all, he couldn’t conduct a proper study unless he only changed one variable at a time. Working on his art, Connor kept an eye out for anything peculiar around him. However, nothing noteworthy had happened. No art came to life at his desk even as he studiously avoided working on that particular piece until he was certain that nothing else could make him even think that another piece of art was coming alive.

Picking up the piece in question, Connor took a deep breath. He put it on his table and grabbed a pencil, it was time to work on Hank’s hair, decide whether he liked it down or if he should do another picture with it up. The pencil shook in his hand when the lighting changed and a soft glow came from his right. Looking up, there was Hank, half sat on the table and watching Connor. His hair shifted around his face as he moved.

“Hello again,” he rumbled and Connor gasped.

“You can talk!”

“At long last, thanks to you.” Hank’s voice was a low, gentle growl, one Connor could happily listen to for years on end.

Their contact was short lived though, Hank was already fading. Obviously, whatever he drew his power from, it was weakened considerably by talking. Buoyed by their interaction, Connor swore to keep trying.

Over the course of the next couple of days, Connor kept experimenting. There was no difference to Hank appearing whether he worked at the kitchen table, at his desk or in the window. Again, time didn’t seem to have any bearing on it either. As long as he was finishing the headshot of Hank, they had a couple of minutes together each day. If they didn’t talk, it could be almost five minutes before Hank’s visage turned to gold dust that faded away.

In the end, Connor returned to his favourite perch in the window with his drawings. For a change, he pulled the lake scene piece out of his folder and mulled over it. He supposed Sumo could do with a little more refining. What Connor didn’t expect was that twenty minutes into drawing there would be a loud, happy “boof” from his elbow. Almost falling out of the window, he looked around but couldn’t see anything. There was, however, the sound of claws clacking away and into the kitchen. Racing after the noise, Connor looked frantically around for the source of noise but aside from some wild snuffling, there was nothing in the kitchen.

“Sumo!” Hank’s voice called and once again there was the clattering of claws and a wind brushed past Connor. As he scurried to the door, he saw the picture he had been working on drift to the floor as if knocked down by either some draft or a wagging tail rushing past.

“Honestly, Sumo!” Connor chided with a giggle and immediately felt silly for it. He was talking to thin air, quite possibly his imagination. Because now, not only was he convinced he’d heard the man he’d created and accidentally fallen in love with but also his dog. However, there was no harm, as far as Connor could see, in letting the fantasy go on a little longer. Truth be told, he had been getting a little lonely, he couldn’t exactly go visit people and not many wanted to go through the trouble that came with setting a foot in his home. His online group of friends were great, but there was something to be said for a physical closeness with others. Some nights, Connor lay awake, touching himself under the covers, wondering what someone else’s hand might feel like, parting his folds and stroking his dick. It was something he could only ever try to imagine though, live vicariously through things he found online.

Having made his mind up, Connor returned to his usual spot and picked up the piece. On the back of it, there was a muddy dog footprint. A spike of worry shot through him at that. If Sumo could bring such things through to life, was it possible for him to contaminate his flat and bring something with him that could trigger Connor’s allergy? To play it safe, he put the drawing to the side, in a plastic wallet and sealed it with some tape. Going to the bathroom, he stripped, hopped in the shower for a wash, took his clothes to the utility room and grabbed the mop and bucket, along with some disinfectant.

Once everything was back to how it should be, the floor was still drying, Connor grabbed the picture of Hank he had been working on.

“Sorry I can’t work on Sumo,” he whispered, “but I don’t want to die.

Before he had a chance to feel like an absolute idiot, a warm voice cut in.

“He can’t hurt you. You only bring what you want to life. None of your creations can bring you harm unintentionally.”

Connor turned and watched as Hank was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. There was an easy smile to him, something warm and welcoming which Connor could never even hope to do justice in his art. It made him shiver.

“How are you here?” he managed to ask.

“You made me, just like you made Sumo. And you willed us into existence. Some people can only bring us into your world through words or pictures. Others, like you, can just wish us into existence.”

“Us?” Connor’s voice wobbled. He thought of all the other characters he had created, drawn and sold on. Worry that he had accidentally been trading living beings trapped by his ignorance.

Pushing away from the wall, Hank moved a little close. “Sumo and me. All your other drawings and characters are still there, you’ve not condemned them to any terrible fate, don’t worry.”

The question of how Hank knew that was on the tip of Connor’s tongue when Hank let out a chuckle. “I know how you think. You created me, remember?”

Before Connor could reply, Hank waved at him with a soft “see you later” and dissolved into golden dust which faded out of view. Pouting, Connor turned back to his drawing but no matter how much he lined it, shaded it, coloured it, Hank refused to reappear. Frustrated and annoyed, he went to bed that evening in a funk.

Dreams were nothing unusual for Connor. Half the time that was how he created new characters, met them in his dreamscape, observed from afar usually, only a few actually came up to him - like Sumo. He’d always put that down to his own personality. Having spent most of his life on the fringes of society, looking in and that was why the humans in his dreams stayed distant from him. Not even in his dreams did he know how to interact with people. On the flip side, Sumo bounding up to him was probably the visceral need to touch and interact with a creature he craved to befriend and have by his side. Now though, he wasn’t so certain.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come tonight,” Hank’s voice surprised him almost to the point of waking. The world shimmered around him and Connor clutched at the golden corners as he tried to stay.

“You didn’t come back, even though I kept drawing you and willing you to be there,” he shot back grumpily once the world had settled back into something more stable. That was the moment Sumo came bounding up to him and Connor braced for the tackle that, in the real world, would have probably broken a few bones. He wasn’t sure who was more surprised, him or Sumo that the dog ended up in his arms as if he was nothing more than a wet pillow case. Hank’s booming laughter had them both pin him with a withering glare which only made him chuckle more, slapping his knees.

Gingerly putting Sumo back down, Connor looked around. He was back by the lake, it was the first time he had actively looked around, knowing that it might be more real than he had ever believed it to be.

“Where are we?” He finally asked.

“In your dreams. This is your realm, everything you see is things you’ve created, willed into life.”

“Do I also control it all then?” Connor asked, eyes wide. He wondered whether, if he thought hard enough, he could turn the trees purple. Or, more cynically, make Hank love him.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” the gentle rebuttal didn’t hurt as much as Connor had expected. “You brought us to life but you don’t dictate our feelings or anything beyond our creation. Sure, you might have given me a tragic backstory, but I have full autonomy beyond that. If I wanted to, I could only have Sumo with me when you thought him up then left him to his own devices. But-” Hank rubbed the back of his neck with a shrug, “-I like the big lug, he’s nice to have around.”

Looking around with renewed wonder, Connor marvelled at everything. The lake was so calm, placid and a perfect mirror of the trees. Sumo was snuffling around in the undergrowth with happy little huffs and Hank was standing at the edge of the water with a small smile. From somewhere around them, a song started playing. Gentle swells of music that was familiar and yet foreign at the same time.

“It’s the song you usually hum when working on this piece,” Hank’s smiled wider and reached a hand for Connor. “May I have this dance?”

Hesitant at first, Connor extended a hand, worried that it would pass straight through Hank, reminding him it was all just a dream. However, his fingers connected with a warm, solid hand which pulled him in until he was flush against a broad chest. Hank led them through a simple waltz and at the end, tipped Connor back to earn a giggle which he grinned back at.

“You probably should wake up soon,” Hank murmured in his ear. “Keep drawing, I’ll see you later.

Leaving the dream world and returning to reality came with a soft pang of sadness. Connor could still feel the softness of the grass under his feet, the warmth of Hank’s body against his. Perhaps his biggest regret was not being brave enough to crane his neck and steal a kiss from Hank. Sighing, Connor rolled out of bed and started getting ready for his day. He didn’t much feel like getting overly dressed, a loose t-shirt and sweatpants thrown lazily on after a shower and brushing his teeth.

Despite Hank only having really come into his life so recently and Connor still wasn’t sure what to make of it all, he found himself missing the company. It was nice to talk. Not like he didn’t already chatter and hum away as he drew, sometimes nonsensical little anecdotes of things he had seen from his window, other times songs he had heard on the radio. Picking up Hank’s headshot again, he began to work, the radio a little bit of noise in the background. This time, he didn’t even jump when the golden outline appeared next to him.

“You know, you don’t have to be working on pictures of me and Sumo to have us around anymore,” Hank greeted. “The fact you came to see us last night is enough to keep us around for a good while.”

Grunting, Connor shrugged, “Maybe I wanted to work on finishing this today.”

“That’s an entirely different matter.”

Working in silence, Connor let out a little sigh and rolled his neck. As much as he loved his nook in the window, it really wasn’t ideal for his posture. What he didn’t expect was for Hank to kneel next to him and lay a hand on the back of his neck. It was a touch that Connor could feel but wasn’t quite there. A warmth radiated from Hank’s hand and there was a phantom weight to it but at the same time, if Connor reached up, he would find that there was nothing tangible against his neck.

“Wha-?” he asked unintelligibly.

“Just relax, let me do this for you,” Hank murmured in his ear. He tried to pluck the piece of art from Connor’s hands but only passed through it ineffectively. “Guess my touch only affects you then.”

Obediently, Connor put the paper and his pen to the side and shuffled a little further forward to make room for Hank behind him. Taking the invitation, Hank slid into the gap, and urged Connor to lean back.

The sensation was a strange one, it was almost like a warm, semi-solid bath as Connor sank against Hank’s chest. It was nice, he couldn’t help but sigh as he tried to remember the last time he’d had contact with another human being outside of a doctor’s office. Maybe as a child, he might have had a caretaker hold him but most of his life, he had Amanda look after him and she was not an affectionate soul. Whether that was just the way Amanda was, or because of his allergies, Connor would never know. All he remembered were hours and hours in his room with his art supplies while the rest of the house bustled around outside. He had his owl little bubble that was almost detached from the world. Shaking the memories and bitterness from his mind, he tried to focus on Hank and his warmth. An arm had looped around his chest.

“Is this okay?” Hank murmured in his ear. Not daring to trust his voice, Connor could only nod. “I know you, Connor, I know what you have dreamed of.”

Embarrassed, Connor tried to move away, get some space between him and Hank. Just because he spent nights fantasising about Hank didn’t mean it was the only thing he wanted. However, the arm held him firmly pinned.

“Let me give you what you want. I dream of his too.”

Licking his lips, Connor turned to face Hank, “Are you sure?”   


The soft press of a kiss was all the answer he needed. It was liquid warmth spreading through him with the kiss. The tickle of Hank’s beard brought a small laugh from Connor’s throat and he had to break away. His first kiss left his whole body tingling.

“I want more,” he rasped and Hank looked all too happy to give him everything he demanded. As they kissed again, a hand slipped under his t-shirt, stroked over the soft skin of his stomach and Connor froze, wondering whether Hank knew everything.

“You’re perfect just the way you are. Just tell me what you want, guide me through what feels good.” His hand moved from Connor’s stomach and ran lightly over the waistband of his jogging bottoms, the tips of his fingers dipping just under the material.

Licking his lips, Connor nodded, “Okay, okay,” he breathed. “I really like it when-” he broke off, a bout of shyness halting his words.

“Go on, what do you like?” Hank softly encouraged him, leaving gentle, prickly kisses along his neck.

“I like my cock being played with, wet your fingers first then slowly circle it.”

Hank’s hand slipped lower, parting Connor’s folds to gather up some slick before retreating back up to his cock, running a finger around it.

“Like this?”

With a soft moan, Connor nodded, shifted to splay his legs open a little more. “Use your thumb and finger to hold it, slowly starts rubbing up and down it.”

As suggested, Hank began to move and he watched Connor’s every reaction. The way his chest heaved with each breath, how it hitched when he pinched a little tighter and his hips twitched, chasing the sensation of his hand.

“How do you feel about your nipples being played with?” he rumbled, his other hand moving a little higher up Connor’s chest. The shake of head stopped him and he let his hand drop back down to Connor’s stomach, teasing the sensitive skin there.

“Wet your fingers a little more.” The panted suggestion was more of a gentle order that Hank was more than happy to follow. He slipped down, keeping the palm of his heel against Connor’s cock as his fingers moved lower to the wet heat of his core. Rather than just wet his fingers, Hank cupped Connor gently, all while pressing kisses to his neck and ground his palm in up and down motions, making sure the stroke over his whole length. That drew a soft whine and Connor’s legs started to shake. Knowing he was close, Hank pulled back up and resumed gently moving his fingers over his cock, building up a gentle speed until Connor was writhing against him.

His whole body stiffened, back arching away from Hank as he finally came, hips pressing up into his hand as he came with a soundless cry. After a few seconds, he fell limp against Hank, letting the warmth course through him with gentle pulses.

Turning his head to the side, Connor sought out Hank’s lips for a soft kiss. “Thank you,” he murmured between soft pecks. “Can I return the favour?”

Smiling, Hank shook his head. “You just bask for a little longer. Maybe, if you were in the mood to draw us a bedroom or a hotel room today, you’d like to visit me tonight and see where our time together takes us?”

Ideas flooded Connor’s mind. Now that he knew he could dream up whatever setting for him and Hank, thoughts of large, plush beds with decadently high thread count sheets sprang to mind. He had a renewed lease on life, one he had never even dreamed of before. That thought brought a small laugh to his lips. All along, he hadn’t dared to dream big and that was what had been holding him back. Now, with Hank by his side, there was no limit to their happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on tumblr as @connorssock and BIGHANK is @BIGHANK over on Twitter.


End file.
